


Paint Like Blood

by ultimatebellarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 12:05:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10020029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultimatebellarke/pseuds/ultimatebellarke
Summary: Clarke finds herself in a reconstruction of Bellamy Blake's greatest desire - and it starts with a house in the woods.





	

At the beginning Clarke does not recognize the cabin in front of her. In the middle of the woods, in a clearing splashed with sunlight, something is off—the green is too bright, the air is too still. She thinks she should be worried – perturbed, at the least – but those feelings aren’t easy to recall. They don’t seem to exist here.

Then it happens—an overwhelming feeling that she is not alone. Clarke turns her head and sees a woman in a red dress, staring at her unflinchingly.

All Clarke can say is, “Where am I?”

“This is a reconstruction of one human’s greatest desire.”

Clarke swallows. A reconstruction. This is not real. She asks, “Whose?”

The woman says, “Bellamy Blake.”

Clarke faintly thinks she should scream. Punch, fight, bite. But a surge of apathy holds her back. Or maybe it’s the house, resting in such tranquil ahead of her. When Clarke turns to look back at the woman, she is gone.

Without much of her own input, Clarke’s feet begin taking her towards the cabin. This cabin – quaint, wooden, and not larger than any family unit Clarke has seen – is Bellamy’s greatest desire. The blunt lack of excess makes Clarke almost want to laugh. Of course. What else did she expect from Bellamy Blake?

The house inside is furnished with few things: chairs, lamps, a few tables. The windows reveal a view of the woods, the hint of more settlements nearby—but the image is too bright, too blurry. _This is a reconstruction._

The room Clarke has walked into holds a bookcase that spans an entire wall. The books are all bound in leather and engraved in gold. She recognizes a few titles – _The Odyssey, Macbeth, Metamorphoses, A Tale of Two Cities_. Clarke knows she has seen them on the Ark, she may have even read them. Right now, however, she remembers nothing of their content.

When Clarke lifts her head, she sees stars. With a start, she realizes they are paintings. The canvases span the ceiling, white flecks speckled on top of deep cobalt; she recognizes constellations, all the many stars comprising Cassiopeia, Aquila, Leo, Orion. She allows her eyes to slowly travel down the ceiling, scrutinizing each of the paintings. They come to a stop when she sees the furniture. Laid to dry on top of several surfaces are more paintings; these are vivid and bright, depicting violet butterflies and peach-coloured flowers, garlands of berries and the red of a sunset.

Clarke can’t draw her eyes away from the paintings. They are beautiful, no doubt. Yet there is something uncanny about each of them, an eerie awareness that makes her chest clench.  
And, amongst the strange, intricate paintings are smaller ones, colours smeared together by an amateur hand. 

She wants to look longer, but a feeling returns full force—the absolute certainty that she is not alone.

When Clarke turns her head, there is no woman in red to greet her. Instead, a peal of laughter cuts through the stillness. Clarke freezes. It is coming from the door next to the bookcase.

Without thinking, Clarke begins to walk, pushing through the wooden entrance.

A boy and a girl with curls more golden than sunlight are sprawled on the floor. The children, with fingers stained in orange and blue, are painting. There are lines and shapes etched into all parts of the tapestry underneath them, and Clarke can’t stop staring.

She isn’t able to feel fear, and she can’t feel sadness. But the sight of the paint-smudged children in a room full of sunlight makes her knees buckle. She catches herself on the edge of the door—the movement catches the children’s attention, and their laughter drops. The two simultaneously flip their heads to stare at her.

For a long beat, there are no words. Then the children smile. They say, “Mama!”

 _Mama._ The world begins to spin, a nauseating frenzy of colors consuming Clarke. She closes her eyes, trying to breathe, trying to make sense past the blood pounding in her ears.  
When she opens her eyes, her hands are tied, her throat is raw. The children are gone; in their place is a boy slumped on the ground, a red line marking his throat.

The fear is back, returning to Clarke in crippling, amplified force. Clarke looks at the blood staining Bellamy Blake and she screams. She screams and she screams.

“Give us the passphrase, Clarke,” a voice which once belonged to her mother says, “and you can give Bellamy the future of his greatest desire.”

The fear is back, and along with it, the sadness. Clarke lowers her head, her throat and eyes both stinging. She thinks of the cabin with the stars and the paint-stained children, and she says, “I can’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on anon ask: "I'd love to see ur take on bellarke and ALIE, i feel like even the AI saw thru their platonic shit". Which, yes, she definitely did.


End file.
